


if pain is what you like

by llyrical



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alcohol, BDSM, Bondage, Consensual Kink, Exhibitionism, Impact Play, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyrical/pseuds/llyrical
Summary: Play Party.These words were in boldfaced white letters, capslocked across the top of the electronic flyer. Under that was an address and details, including,free drinks,21+, andevery Friday at 9!Under this, a paragraph that Kaiba stopped reading after his eyes picked up on the words “adult fun.”
Relationships: Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler/Kaiba Seto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28





	if pain is what you like

It started as a joke, an email that Mokuba forwarded him after receiving it in a blast from a friend-of-a-friend. 

(But he’d brought this on himself, he supposed. Years before, when mocking his frequent choice of leather clothes and accessories, Mokuba had said, jokingly, “I’m beginning to think that you’ve got some leather fetish, Seto. Maybe you’re into all that weird bondage stuff.” 

And Kaiba had replied, not so jokingly, “Maybe I am.” 

Mokuba had replied in the way that would be expected from any younger brother: “Okay, _gross_ , Nii-sama. I never need to hear about that again _ever._ ” 

But despite his words, it had remained a topic of humor between them. Kaiba was never certain how much Mokuba believed that he was joking.) 

_Play Party._

These words were in boldfaced white letters, capslocked across the top of the electronic flyer. Under that was an address and details, including, _free drinks,_ _21+_ , and _every Friday at 9!_ Under this, a paragraph that Kaiba stopped reading after his eyes picked up on the words “adult fun.” 

Mokuba’s email had read, _I’ve been telling you that you need to get out and do more fun things, Nii-sama! Maybe this can be your first venture?_ along with a dozen emojis that Kaiba wasn’t sure how to interpret.

It started as a joke, but five days later, here he is, GPS telling him when he’s arrived at his destination.

The building is in the heart of downtown Domino, hiding in plain site. Kaiba elects to park in a garage with twenty-four hour surveillance and walk several blocks to his destination rather than risk his car getting dinged on the side of the road by the drunks that frequent this district. During his walk, he checks the message on his phone three times to ensure that he has the correct address, the part of his dignity that’s still alive refusing to make a fool of himself by showing up at the wrong event. 

The address is for the penthouse suite of a hotel, one with a decent reputation but still half the size of even the smallest Kaiba Hotel. Nobody at the desk even glances his way as he enters the lobby and heads straight for the (fortunately in-sight) elevator. Whether this is because they’re used to an influx of people coming in and out because of events like this or because Kaiba puts off an air of knowing exactly where he’s going and not needing any assistance, he isn’t certain. 

He’s showing up an hour after the event has started, already fairly late into the night, and he’s relieved when he doesn’t have to share the elevator. Although there’s nothing out of the ordinary about his appearance and even if someone were to recognize him as Kaiba Seto they’d probably just think him a guest of the hotel, his skin still prickles at the idea of anybody glancing his direction and just _knowing,_ somehow, what he’s here for. 

He hears the music playing before the elevator doors have even slid open, something with a low beat and few words. There’s no bouncer at the entrance, which surprises Kaiba at how much trust they put in their patrons being of legal age, but there is a small bucket for donations with a scribbled sign above explaining something about purchasing food and alcohol for the events. Kaiba, uncertain what is customary, drops a five-thousand yen bill in before tucking his wallet back into his pocket and reminding himself to stay conscious of its location should anyone get handsy with him. 

No one pays him any mind, everyone too involved in their own… activities to care about the entrance of another partygoer. While some are engaged in the exact sort of thing that Kaiba had in mind when first reading the email, a surprising number are simply talking in small groups, most with cups of what Kaiba presumes to be alcohol in their hands. He hears snippets of English mixed in with the Japanese, and as he drags his eyes over the room, he notes a variety of skin tones and hair colors, and guests ranging in varying states of dress and undress. While he’d dressed down tonight, tight designer jeans and a black button-down, he doubts that one of his lavish trench coats would look too out of place here. 

He also notes the state of the suite, nice but still not on the level of one of Kaiba Hotel’s. What interests him the most is the amount of personal belongings, furniture and paintings that don’t look hotel standard, implying that the person who’s hosting this event lives in the hotel full-time. It’s not unheard of—Kaiba has certainly lived in similar penthouses when on business trips to America or China or France that have taken months at a time—but it’s not exactly common, either. Who chooses to take up permanent residence in a hotel rather than looking into an apartment or condo? 

He’ll admit that some of his curiosity stems from wondering who the host of this event could be. A travelling businessperson like himself, perhaps? 

His thoughts are interrupted by a hand brushing against his lower back as a woman slides around him, presumably just trying to cut through the crowd but pausing as she takes note of Kaiba’s expression. He jolts only slightly at her touch before his eyes flick down to meet hers. 

“You look lost, sugar,” she says with a smile that isn’t unkind, having to stand on her toes and speak up for him to hear her over the music and dull roar of conversation. She looks to be in her late twenties, probably only a few years older than him, with hair dyed a shocking purple and clothes tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination. In one hand she holds what appears to be a leather cat o’ nine tails, and Kaiba’s eyes immediately lock onto it. After a moment, the woman laughs, raising the whip slightly and correcting herself, “Oh, or maybe you know _exactly_ what you’re looking for.” 

His eyes snap back to her face, cheeks flushing in humiliation at his utter lack of dignity. He’s Kaiba Seto; how has he stooped this low? Furthermore, he dislikes how easily she read him; he likes to think that people would have taken one look at him and seen him as the… giver, rather than the receiver. But this woman had glanced over him only once and seen him for exactly what he was. 

Which was _what,_ exactly? A masochist? A—Kaiba hated this prospect the most— _submissive_? 

“I’ve got a set up over there, if you’re interested,” the woman continues, nodding her chin towards a back corner of the room. When Kaiba does nothing to indicate his interest, she smiles and starts, “Or if you’d rather a man do it, I can get-” 

“It’s fine,” he interrupts, the words choking their way out of his throat. There’s another heat going through him now, uncurling low in his stomach, his body at odds with itself. He could decline, yes, but there’s no denying that this is what he truly came here for, his own curiosity only a convenient excuse. “Where?” 

The woman studies his face for another moment, perhaps doubting his sincerity before seemingly recognizing his nerves as just that and grabbing onto one of his hands with her free one, leading him through the crowd. 

He keeps his head ducked, the risk of somebody recognizing him too great to stomach, despite the flyer's indication that the participants of these events specialize in discretion and that everything that happens behind closed doors remains there. The last thing that he needs is a scandal; despite that he’s an adult, noted as one of Japan’s most eligible bachelors for his name and fortune, no less, he’s still the head of a gaming company that creates tech primarily targeted towards children. Potential parent buyers seeing him as some kind of degenerate is the kind of publicity scandal that Kaiba Corp can’t take right now on the cusp of a major dueling tournament. 

The woman’s “set up” is a large, X-shaped stand on the wall, attached cuffs on all four ends. A part of Kaiba balks; when he’d volunteered for this, he hadn’t imagined that he’d be so exposed, his back bare to any participant who got some sick, voyeuristic pleasure out of watching him (as if he were in any position to judge). And while he knows that he can still back out if he wants, can still ask the woman for something else—these events stress communication as being as important as consent—a thrill has already shot through him at the idea, and there’s no backing out now. 

There’s a few feet of space surrounding the area, but Kaiba can already tell that the attention of nearby guests has been piqued, curious glances shot his way and knowing smirks playing on the edges of people’s lips. He does his best to ignore it. 

“First off, my name is Violet,” the woman says. They’re away from the speakers pumping music now, this area far quieter, so she needn’t shout to be heard. “Would you care to tell me your name? Or something else that you want to be called, if that’s your preference.” 

Kaiba exists in a world where that question isn’t sincere; the illusion of choice is just that. With Violet, he can tell that she’s truly giving him the option to remain anonymous. 

“Seto,” he says, his seldom-used given name feeling like the better option. If this woman recognizes him by face alone, she hasn’t given any indication, but there’s little doubt that she would recognize his family name. 

“Safeword?” 

“Hyacinthe,” he answers without hesitation, having rehearsed the answer to himself in the hours leading up to the event. Just in case. 

She smiles at this, but just slightly. “Any preferences?” She slaps the whip lightly against her open palm, and Kaiba’s eyes can’t help but be drawn to the movement before he rights himself. 

“As hard as you see fit,” he says, already having resigned himself to this answer. Violet’s eyes twinkle at that. “Also, I’m not—I don’t… vocalize.” His face burns at this, but he isn’t sure of a better way to say _don’t make me count. I don’t want to beg for more or call you ‘Mistress.’_

He finds her studying his face again at this, curiosity dotting her features before she masks it and nods. “That’s fine. We’re doing this for you, sugar.” 

Kaiba nods, pretending he isn’t disconcerted at the concept of something being done solely for himself. Not for Kaiba Corp, not to prove a point, but merely for him. “Alright.” 

“Alright,” Violet mimics, and then gives him a once over. “Strip.” 

_This_ is phrased more like something that Kaiba is used to, both unassuming and unquestionable. He turns away from her as he does so, feeling the eyes of crowd members warming his skin as he unbuttons his shirt and folds it delicately with a tangibly painful slowness. 

When he’s nude, he turns back to face the woman, years worth of self-hatred curling in his chest and making him want to cover himself up. He fights it and keeps his eyes locked on Violet’s, uninterested in the stares of others. 

She leads him to the wall and starts with his wrists, buckling them in and checking with him to make sure that the tightness is fine. She does his ankles, next, and Kaiba notes that the x is shaped in a way that has his arms spaced farther than his legs, making it more comfortable despite the overwhelming feeling of exposure. 

The first slap of the leather against his back is light, like fingers brushing against skin, serving only as a way to prepare him for what is to come. She holds the leather gently against his back, allowing his skin to get used to the feeling, and he shivers through the long few seconds of stillness. When she lands the first _real_ strike, Kaiba’s back arches away from her and further into the wall, half a choked noise leaving his lips before he silences it. 

From behind him, Violet asks, “You good?” At his nod, she strikes him again, lower this time so that leather splays against his ass, shooting white-hot pain down his spine. He hisses through the pain, grinding his teeth together hard enough that he’s certain he’ll have a migraine from it later. 

She falls into an easy rhythm and Kaiba leans into it, body lost in the sensation. He can feel each piece of the whip individually, pinpricks of pain that shoot through him and send heat into his groin. On the hits that land on his lower back, closer to his ass, he groans, sometimes forgetting himself in the feeling and letting his body relish in the pain.

Kaiba is used to standing over people, both in stature and status. In this moment, he’s never felt smaller. 

Nothing has felt more right. 

He has no concept of how long the beating lasts for, the situation simultaneously dragging on and feeling like it’s going by too quickly for Kaiba’s mind to keep up. Violet somehow knows exactly what he needs, what he’s been secretly been craving for years: a hard whipping. When she’s finally decided that he’s had enough, he slumps forward in his restraints, uncertain if he’s relieved or despaired. His entire back is on fire, body at feverish temps. Without looking, he can feel that the crowd around them has grown. 

Violet releases him from his bonds, and it isn’t until he’s rubbing his own wrists that he can feel his entire body trembling, skin in the aftershocks of what it’s been through but adrenaline too high for him to care. Near his ear, Violet murmurs, “You did beautifully, Seto,” despite him not having done anything at all, and a light touch on his wrists leads him, naked, through the crowd, out of the room, and into a bathroom that spills white light over him and leaves him painstakingly aware of every flaw on his body. 

Shutting the door behind her, Violet says, “You can sit,” and it’s a relief to Kaiba’s legs, threatening to give out. He goes down onto his knees, the cold tile relieving against his hot skin, and rests his forehead against the rim of the jacuzzi tub as he hears Violet running water in the sink. His head feels fuzzy, a tiny buzz similar to the first shot of rum, and it’s a momentary relief to close his eyes and lean into the sensations surrounding him: the cold against his knees, the smooth glass against his forehead, the almost-numb stinging in his back. 

Violet warns him of the cold before dragging the rag across his skin, and with this shock to his senses, he’s relieved at least to feel that she didn’t break the skin anywhere. He’ll be stuck with raised welts for the better part of the week, surely, but it’s a relief to know that he won’t have to worry about disinfecting cuts on such a hard-to-reach area. After she’s wiped down the area, chuckling when Kaiba jumps at the cold against his ass, she puts on some kind of salve that has Kaiba’s sensitive nose twitching at the scent. 

When she’s finished, indicated by her closing the salve and the sound of her standing up, Kaiba hears the door open and then close. A moment of panic shoots through him, and he breathes hard against the cold rim of the tub, but he’s calmed when she returns only seconds later, and a glance her direction shows that she’d only disappeared to retrieve his clothes. 

He indicates his gratitude with a silent nod as he forces himself to his feet and begins to dress. His erection, straining and leaking against his stomach while he was bound, went down during the aftercare process, and Kaiba is grateful for this as he gets back into his tight pants. 

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Seto?” Violet asks when he’s made his way up to his shirt, leaning against the counter and looking at him curiously. The question is interesting to him; Violet is obviously a dominatrix— _or a switch,_ a more liberal part of his brain reminds him. Shouldn’t the question be what _he_ could do for her, and not the other way around?

He shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says, but by the look of the tiny frown on her lips, this isn’t a sufficient answer. He ignores it, finally taking in the bathroom that they’re in; it’s certainly lived-in, full-size bottles of shampoo visible through the fogged glass of the shower door. “Are you the host?” he asks finally, unsure why he hadn’t wondered before. 

She laughs. “Nah,” she says, but she doesn’t offer any more information as to who is. 

Kaiba, fully dressed, shifts uncomfortably now, dress shoes clicking loudly against the tile. 

Violet seems to sense his discomfort and moves, hand hovering near the door. Before she opens it, she turns to ask him, “Are you staying?” 

He considers it, briefly; he hadn’t had a bad experience here so far, and a part of him was desperately ready to get his hands on whatever alcohol was available. But he hadn’t missed the hungry stares of some of the guests as he’d been led away from the wall and to the bathroom, and he isn’t prepared quite yet for propositions or flirting. He has a car to retrieve, a cat to care for, and probably much higher-quality alcohol at home. 

“No,” he says, and when she opens her mouth to reply, Kaiba cuts her off, predicting her question and continuing, “I’ll be fine to drive.” 

She doesn’t question him, simply nodding and accepting this at face value. “Well,” she says, “I’m glad I could help. I hope you enjoyed yourself.” 

It takes Kaiba a moment to quietly reply, “I did,” but by that point, she’s slipped back into the crowd and he’s alone in the bathroom. 

He tells himself that it’s not going to become a habit. 

It was a one-time thing. He went just to see if he liked it, and he did; it had him returning to his apartment and desperate to get his jeans unzipped again, not picturing the woman herself but rather the whip in her hand. She was pretty enough, he supposes, but women in general aren’t his type; the tool, on the other hand, is an image burned in his retinas, the thought of the marks on his back enough to get his blood warming for days following the event. 

The day after isn’t as nice, the raised lines of his back scratching and itching against the fabric of his shirt despite it being made of the finest materials. He’s relieved that it’s the weekend and he can afford to work from home, electing simply not to wear a shirt—something he does rarely for simple disdain of seeing his shirtless figure, too pale, too thin, reflected in the surfaces of his apartment. But he sticks to the desk in his office with his laptop, rarely having any purpose to leave, and the cool leather of the back of his chair is welcome. 

He’d moved out of the Kaiba mansion only a year before, the space simply too open and lonesome with Mokuba living away at college. He’d already dismissed a large majority of the staff, too paranoid after years of kidnappings and sabotage and outright assassination attempts to keep many around. So the mansion sits empty most of the time, Mokuba normally choosing to sleep on Seto’s couch when he’s home for breaks despite the many beds available to him should he want them. 

Kaiba’s not going to pretend that he doesn’t know about the party that Mokuba had thrown at the mansion the last time he was home, however. 

Monday sees his return to work, the lines on his back reduced to scratches, fortunately unirritated by his dress shirt. Still, he finds himself squirming at his desk, his mind apparently requiring a full-on mental bleaching in order to rid him of the memory of the eyes on him, hungry and wanting for something other than a bite of his fortune. 

But there’s work to do. It’s only a few weeks after the release of their most recent Duel Monsters video game, and there are reports to be reviewed, proposals from rival gaming companies to be looked over. The weekend left KaibaLand-adjacent paperwork piled on his desk, everything from profit reports to worker complaints from both the KaibaLand Japan locations and the KaibaLand Paris one. 

On top of this, they’re only two months out from their next major tournament. He has plans to finalize, executives to be in contact with, and sponsorship deals to propose to the world’s current top duelists. He spends the better half of the afternoon on the phone, switching languages as fluidly as flipping a light switch and glaring at his interns as they appear sporadically to drop more paperwork on his desk. 

The rest of the week follows this same pattern. He takes lunch in his office, sending interns to fetch him coffee as his migraines come and go. By Friday, the marks on his back have all but disappeared. 

He told himself that it wasn’t going to be a habit, but he returns to the hotel penthouse on Friday night and lets a man cuff him to a bench and paddle his ass until he’s panting like a dog. Afterwards, they jack each other off in the bedroom of whoever is hosting the party. 

The following Friday, he starts drinking upon arrival. After a few plastic cups filled with scotch and no mixer, he leaves the party with a guy. A French businessman who has a room just several floors down in the same hotel. His Japanese is both broken and limited, and Kaiba does nothing to inform him that he speaks fluent French. It’s better that way, as communication between them is solely to establish boundaries. They don’t exchange names. 

After that, he stops trying to convince himself that it isn’t going to become a habit. 

The night after joining the man in his hotel room, Kaiba goes to the bar. Despite it being Saturday, he’d spent the day at the office, finding it the best way to keep his mind off of the slow burning in his lower back that’s fortunately all but dissipated by the time the sun goes down. There are plenty of bars near the Kaiba Corp headquarters, being in the business district of Domino, but he elects to drive a bit out of his way to drink for free at a Kaiba Hotel bar. 

It’s busy, tonight being Saturday, so he picks a seat at the bar when he would have preferred a small table to himself. He motions to the bartender, who quickly takes note of who he is and hurries over to him ahead of the patrons who had been seated first, and makes quick work of bringing him a scotch. 

He hears the man before he sees him, rambunctious laugher loud enough to draw his attention away from his drink and to the corner of the room where a blonde head peaks above a small crowd of people. A voice that’s never been used to having to be polite or even just _not_ obnoxious: Jounouchi Katsuya. 

Kaiba hasn’t seen Jounouchi up close since—god, since they finished school, probably. He’s seen him around, of course; Jounouchi has risen the ranks to be known as the top duelist in Japan after Kaiba himself retired from dueling and Yugi left the country to study abroad. Kaiba’s seen him at tournaments, along with seeing his face in the news, his name amongst the list of duelists that Kaiba Corp send their products to for promotional purposes. 

As though feeling Kaiba’s stare on the back of his neck, Jounouchi looks up. Part of Kaiba wants to dart his eyes away, look in any other direction, but the business side of him that refuses to back down from anything holds his stare. 

Jounouchi turns back to his group and resumes speaking, and Kaiba turns back to the bar and drains his scotch. 

He’s about to signal for another when there’s movement in his peripherals as the seat next to his is taken, and when he glances over to see Jounouchi, he tries to mask his surprise. Jounouchi, not looking at him, holds up two fingers to the bartender, and she nods his way as though she knows his order already, meaning that he’s probably a regular. Jounouchi Katsuya, a regular at a Kaiba Hotel bar? He wonders vaguely how he’s never seen him around before reminding himself that he usually elects to drink at home. 

The bartender sets two fruity-looking cocktails in front of Jounouchi, and he slides one down the bar until it’s sitting in front of Kaiba. 

“Kaiba Seto,” he says, the slow start of a sentence rather than a greeting, “drinkin’ alone at a bar on a Saturday night?” 

He drags his eyes over to the other man only to find him grinning, holding Kaiba’s stare for a second before taking a sip of his drink. Kaiba looks to his own drink, untouched, and wonders if he should tell Jounouchi that he’s drinking for free. 

“I’m sorry,” Kaiba says, shifting in his seat to turn his body so that he’s facing Jounouchi, “did I miss the part where we’re greeting each other like old friends?” 

He expects Jounouchi to scowl at this, to bite back with his own cutting remark, but instead he just laughs, taking another drink. When he looks back to Kaiba, there’s a gleam in his eyes. 

“I’ve just grown up, Kaiba,” he says, tipping his glass towards him. “I thought maybe you woulda too.” 

His face burns at this; how is this man, a child the entire time that Kaiba has known him, accusing _him_ of being immature? 

He chooses to pretend to ignore the comment, instead finally taking the drink in hand and draining most of it in one swallow; he’s overwhelmed by the taste of peach and Prosecco. How can anybody drink something this sweet on the regular? With the clink of his glass against the bar, he says, “Not all of us have _time_ to make friends. I _do_ run a company, if you recall.” 

Jounouchi snorts. “Yeah, and I’m a pretty busy top-ranked duelist, but what’s the bother of living if you don’t have time for fun?” He finishes his drink, and a wave to the bartender has her bringing two more out before Kaiba has even thought of finishing his first one. 

_Fun._ It makes Kaiba’s face flush slightly at the thought of his attendance to the play parties over the last few weeks; hadn’t Mokuba suggested that he go because he needed more ‘fun’? 

“Success,” Kaiba says. “Power.” 

Something flashes across Jounouchi’s face at this, but it’s cleared and replaced with the same smile before Kaiba can think too long about it, except this one is a little… sad. “Ah,” Jounouchi says, “I guess things really don’t change.” 

He stands, and Kaiba’s eye twitches at the scraping of his barstool against the floor. He picks up his drink, Kaiba’s one-and-a-half still sitting untouched, and gives him a nod. “Have a good one, Kaiba,” he says, and returns to his table in the corner of the bar. Kaiba hears him say, “Wow, you fuckers can’t survive for five minutes without me?” accompanied by a cheerful laugh, and he turns back to the bar to tune him out. 

_Forget about him,_ Kaiba tells himself now, and again later on, when he’s emptying his stomach into the toilet of a hotel room and all he can taste is peach.


End file.
